


To Move Without Purpose

by sidonay



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidonay/pseuds/sidonay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their motel room makes noises at night. It was supposed to be just another, unspoken constant between them. The room makes noise and, sometimes, it sounded like music if you let it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Move Without Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. I haven’t written a non-AU, canon-esque fic since May of last year. But I really wanted to write something for these two and I couldn’t get the image of them slow dancing out of my head so… here we are. There's a chance this is probably horribly out-of-character, but hopefully someone enjoys it anyway.

Their motel room makes noises at night. It makes noises most of the day, as well, but at night it all seems so much louder, because outside is that much more silent, save for the vehicles and the man who paced outside the rooms between two and three in the morning like clockwork, hacking and spitting.

Things buzz and hum and gurgle and creak. Something in the ceiling bangs, clicks and Fiore wonders as he stares up at it when it would collapse on them in the middle of the night. It seemed likely. It seemed inevitable. It almost felt like the only thing he could truly count on right then, that he’d be crushed in his sleep ( _sleep_ , a still foreign concept, confusing, frustrating; how did humans get anything done when they were always so tired?

_“They’re not always tired,” DeBlanc had said to Fiore. “It’s just you.” He pauses. “I’ve seen commercials about that being a symptom of something. Are you sad?”_

He wasn’t sad. He was angry. Who knew anger could be so exhausting.)

 

. . . .

 

He focuses on those noises one night, tries to draw a pattern from it, counts between each sound.

One two. One two three. One three four. One two. Over and over. There’s the humming from the lights, a faint static whisper from the television that wasn’t even on, that pulled through as two vibrating chords through the whole thing.

_Hmmmmmmmm—_

“—mmmmmmm…” DeBlanc is humming, too, right on key and Fiore sits up, propped on sharp elbows, stares at him from where he’s standing, frowning. He knew that he must hear it too, but he hadn’t figured he’d acknowledge it. It was supposed to be just another, unspoken constant between them. The room makes noise and, sometimes, it sounded like music if you let it. “Do you remember,” DeBlanc says, holding out a hand to Fiore, “The last time we danced?”

“DeBlanc…” Fiore warns, as if there were people watching, as if they weren’t alone.

“I don’t quite enjoy the music here,” DeBlanc says, ignoring Fiore’s tone. “But there’s something about these sounds that I like.” His arm is still out, waiting and, for a moment, Fiore wonders how long he could lie there—if he could lower himself back down completely on mattress—before DeBlanc would give up. He starts humming again, swaying slightly, and he looks so ridiculous that Fiore stands up, goes over to him just to make him stop, hands awkward on his shoulders, holding him still.

“Enough,” Fiore says.

“You didn’t answer my question,” DeBlanc tells him.

“I don’t remember,” Fiore says, frown deepening when DeBlanc grabs his hand, holds it up, puts his other hand on his waist.

“We both know that isn’t true,” DeBlanc says, starting to move the both of them, and Fiore is not pleased with how his body seems to be betraying him, is allowing this to happen. He says nothing in response, listens to the noises, the sound of their feet against a worn floor now adding into the melody.

(Of course he remembers. Maybe he just doesn’t _want_ to. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to give DeBlanc the satisfaction.)

They do nothing but move and breathe and Fiore stares at a spot just over the top of DeBlanc’s head. He’s warm against him and it's a weird feeling, to truly feel another being’s warmth against your own skin. _Nerves_. Touch. It might be Fiore’s least favorite human sense. It’s too much sometimes. Nice, occasionally. But, mostly, it’s painful.

(Not now. There’s none now. At least, not for awhile. It always seems to be lurking just in the corner, waiting. Especially these days.)

The ceiling bangs and Fiore looks up at it.

“It’s going to collapse on us,” he says.

“Wouldn’t be shocked,” DeBlanc says.

The man starts shuffling down the walkway outside, slippered feet scuffing concrete and he starts choking on his own body fluids, spitting, clearing his throat. It breaks everything, ruins the moment.

DeBlanc drops his hands away, stops, exhales slowly. Discontented.

There’s no pretending this was music anymore.

The horn from a truck speeding past whines at them, just to make the point even more abundantly clear. _Show’s over_.

Sounds are just sounds again. The motel makes noise.

Fiore goes back to bed and waits to be crushed.


End file.
